there. We’re going to sleep in the house.”
“You are not! I won’t let you in.”
Cimarron reached in his pocket and brought out the key ring, dangling it in front of her. “Why would I buy a house and not get the keys for it?”
She stiffened and stared at the jingling keys. “Ooh, I’m going to kill Bobby.”
“I’d better get Wyatt out of your way.”
“Wyatt is not the one who’s in my way. And we’ll deal with this later.”
Cimarron followed her as she pushed through the swinging doors and went to greet the first dinner customers. He motioned for Wyatt, and the child came obediently through the kitchen door. Cimarron had a look through the cupboards and coolers until he found some sliced turkey and bread. He made Wyatt a sandwich and found a safe corner for him to play away from the kitchen appliances.
“Sorry, bud, you’re on your own for the rest of the evening.”
Wyatt settled down with his backpack at his side and took the sandwich and glass of milk Cimarron offered. “Okay.”
Enough with the okays! Maybe one day the kid would learn another word.
Cimarron continued to work in the kitchen, doing most of the cooking according to Sarah’s clipped directions while she waited tables through the next three chaotic hours. He wiped his brow with a shirtsleeve and sweat trickled down his back, the heat of the kitchen intensified by Sarah’s anger. He held on to his own temper by the thinnest thread. No place for a blowup between them, with a café full of customers who would have very long memories and very loose tongues, if Cimarron’s recollection of small-town life held true.
When all was quiet and the last customer had paid and left, he let out a long sigh as he heard Sarah click the lock on the front door. He was whipped, tired to the bone, just as he was at the end of every long day since his brother died. The feeling was nothing like the exhausted satisfaction of hard physical labor on a house. Not at all. He could leave now and let Sarah finish on her own, but knowing she would be stuck working for hours if he did, he started scrubbing the pots and pans.
SARAH PAUSED in her cleanup of the dining room to cock an ear toward the kitchen. In there, Cimarron whistled softly amidst the clatter of metal as he washed dishes. He had worked like a Trojan tonight and now he was cleaning the kitchen, yet anger still roiled inside her. She didn’t want him doing anything else thoughtful to make her feel guilty.
She knew she was taking out her frustration with her brother on Cimarron, but she couldn’t help it. All her dreams, her plans, her future income had been blown to pieces by her brother’s greed. Cimarron seemed like a nice enough guy, but under the circumstances he could be a saint and she’d still feel the same way. She wanted her property back.
She rolled the cleanup cart to the doorway. “You can go now. I’ll finish up.”
“Most everything’s done in here, anyway.”
The pans sat on the drainboard, shining clean, the counters had all been wiped down. Damp dishcloths waited in the laundry basket in the corner. Unused food had been put away. All Sarah had to do was load the dishwasher and start the linens washing.
“Wow…thanks,” she said, wishing she liked him better. He’d saved her a ton of work. “I…I can handle breakfast myself in the morning. That’s the only meal I serve on Sundays.”
He nodded. “All right.”
“There’s a little motel a few miles down the road.” She hoped he’d take the hint.
“I know. I saw it on the way to Bozeman.”
“So, you can stay there.”
“I think not. I don’t have to pay to stay in my own house.”
“We’ll see how long that lasts.” She jerked open the door to load the dishwasher, then straightened and looked around. “Where’s Wyatt?”
Cimarron turned to a corner of the kitchen, started to speak, then paled when he saw the cubbyhole was empty. “He was right there.”
“Maybe he slipped out the back door.”
“I would have heard him. He’s here somewhere. Wyatt?” Cimarron moved to the area where Wyatt’s toys were still strewn about. He squatted and let out a breath of relief. “Here he is.”
Sarah followed Cimarron’s gaze. The child was curled into a ball on an open shelf under the counter, all but hidden from view. Cimarron stuffed the toys into the bag and gently slid Wyatt out. He hoisted the bag by its strap over one shoulder and lifted the boy over the opposite.
Sarah studied the two of them. Neither was at ease and she wondered why. Newsreels of kidnapped children ran through her mind. True these two looked just alike, but family abductions happened all the time.
“You’re not very good at looking after him, are you?” she said bluntly.
“I knew where he was.”
Sarah shook her head. “I saw that look of panic. You’d forgotten about him. Didn’t have a clue if he was still in the room.”
To her surprise, he didn’t argue. “I’m going to put him to bed now.”
“In that dirty old house?”
“We’ll sleep another night in the back of the camper.” Cimarron lowered his voice as Wyatt shifted and mumbled something. “You and I will talk tomorrow about the house.”
The screen door slammed after him and Sarah was left alone and thoroughly dispirited. When all the closing chores were done, she did a final circuit of the café, double-checked the locked doors and climbed the stairs to her apartment. She loved living above the café for convenience, but she was looking forward to having more space when she moved into the bed-and-breakfast—a prospect now put on hold because of her double-crossing brother.
Although the café was decorated in pink, she’d chosen an array of other colors for her personal quarters—sunny yellow for the spacious living room and kitchen, and peaceful celadon green for the bedroom. Casual furnishings and a minimum of clutter made the apartment a perfect retreat after long hours in the café.
She opened a window and let the cool air and soothing night noises calm her nerves as she looked down on the parking lot. Cimarron’s truck, dark inside, was parked at the back. Hoping it would be gone in the morning, she began to get ready for bed. But she was pretty sure her worst nightmare would still be around when the sun came up.
CHAPTER FIVE
THE CUSTOM CAMPER shell on the back of Cimarron’s pickup was outfitted with bare-bones necessities assembled to suit Cimarron’s vagabond lifestyle, but there was little space for an extra person—even one as small as Wyatt. His presence in the cramped space made Cimarron almost claustrophobic.
Cimarron settled Wyatt into the camouflage sleeping bag they’d bought after R.J.’s death. Wyatt considered sleeping on the floor of the camper “adventure sleeping.” Cimarron just considered it inconvenient. He had been stepping over and on toys, small articles of clothing and Wyatt for weeks, and he was at his wit’s end to find a minute of privacy in order to regroup and try to figure out a solution. He’d intended to stay in the house just to have a bit of room to move around, but Sarah’s stubborn resistance might make that difficult.
When Wyatt’s even breathing assured him the child was asleep, he slipped outside for some fresh air. The dark night was tempered by a half moon and also the warm glow of Sarah’s security light on a pole in the parking lot. Cimarron paced the lot for a few minutes to work off his tension.
What the hell was he going to do with this child? How could he raise Wyatt and give him a decent life? But there was nobody else to take him. Cimarron had no idea where his noaccount father might be—dead or alive. Even if he was alive, he’d never